


How a baby changes everything

by systemofhaimish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Cheating, First Time, John's baby, Johnlock Challenges Valentine's Day Gift Exchange, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Valentine's Day, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:17:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1189962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systemofhaimish/pseuds/systemofhaimish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt "Sherlock is caught between his duty (bringing Mary and John back together) and his desire (keeping John for himself)."</p><p>Tags may not apply yet, as this is a WIP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How a baby changes everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maia-nebula](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=maia-nebula).



_Can I come stay with you for a few nights?  
Yes._

The reply came almost immediately. John exhaled in relief and slid his phone back into the desk drawer. 

Without so much as a knock, the door clicked open. John didn’t bother looking—he knew who he would find.

“Mr Davison, concussion,” came the soft voice from the doorway. John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Fine. Send him in."

He could hear her hesitating. "John, we could just—"

"I don't want to talk about it," he snapped, turning in his chair to face the door. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the wall, on the floor, on the door, anything but her face. "I'm going to stay with Sherlock tonight."

Mary stopped talking. The room was silent for a few long seconds.

"We couldn't just talk about thi—" "No."

Both stayed perfectly still and silent. John counted his breaths, forcing himself to keep them steady. Getting angrier would only make it worse.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mary gave a little nod and whispered, "well I'll just bring him in, then," before turning and shuffling back out of the room.

\---

The rest of the day passed slowly, and by 5 pm, John had his work tucked away and was ready to catch the tube to Baker Street. For a brief moment, he wondered if he should have gone home first to pick up some clothes and toiletries, but Mary's part-time shift had already ended, and he didn't want to run the risk of seeing her. There was also no telling what—or who—he might find in that house with her.

He let himself into the flat and vaguely wondered if Mrs Hudson was ever going to change the lock. From 221B, he heard the faint sound of a melancholy violin. As he climbed the stairs, the tune became more heartfelt and slid into a brighter key. The door was wide open, and John could see Sherlock's silhouette against the sunset pouring in through the window, clad in a red bathrobe. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sherlock lowered his bow slowly and turned to face his friend. The dim light danced across the angles of his face, making them sharper, then softer, then darker. Something clenched in John's chest, but he pushed it down as quickly as possible.

Sherlock frowned slightly and approached, dropping his violin on the sofa as he stepped around the coffee table. His eyes flickered over John's body quickly, and John resigned himself to being deduced. When Sherlock was satisfied, he nodded over to the armchairs and disappeared into the kitchen. John took a seat and dropped his bag on the floor with a tired sigh, tapping his fingers lightly on the arms and taking in his surroundings.

"Didn't bother cleaning up, then?" he joked halfheartedly. The flat was still as much as a mess as it ever was, with several new experiments lying around.

The detective appeared with a cup of tea on a saucer and handed it to his friend. John's eyebrows shot up at the sight of it, but he accepted the cup and took a sip. It was steeped just the right amount, with enough milk to make it rich, but not tasteless.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock murmured in vaguely annoyed scoff. He picked up his violin again and plucked at one of the strings idly. "Cleanliness is... boooring." He let the word sit in the air for a moment before continuing. "Besides, there's no point in trying to impress /you/."

"Oh, thanks."

"You know what I mean."

John drained the rest of the cup and cleared his throat. "You know what, I think I'm going to go to the pub or something. Just to... get my mind off things. You know."

Sherlock stared at him over his shoulder and stopped fingering his violin. "There's some whiskey in the cupboard. The kind you like, not the posh stuff."

John felt slightly touched under his surprise. Before he could say anything, Sherlock interrupted, "I was using it for a case, but it's not important. You can take it." He turned back to the window to watch the last few rays of golden sunlight disappear behind the skyline.

Hiding a small smile, John fetched the half-empty bottle from the kitchen and poured himself a few fingers' worth into a cup, which he immediately drained. Almost immediately, he felt the nutty flavor dissipate through his body, and his muscles lighten a little. He decided to take the bottle with him back to his seat.

Sherlock had picked up his bow again and was languidly stroking it across the strings of his violin to produce elegant, soulful notes which hung in the air and fluttered about John's head as he poured his second drink.

"This is nice, you know," John commented idly, swirling the glass. "It still feels like home here. And I haven't heard you play the violin since the, err... the wedding." He took a large gulp from the glass to hide his faint blush, as if Sherlock had eyes in the back of his head.

Sherlock continued to play, moving gently in time with the music. "Yes, well... _babies_ do tend to take up a lot of time."

 _Oh God, the baby._ John gave an inward groan. He had left Mary to take of the baby by herself. She would probably kill him if they ever made up. Although to be fair, she deserved a little bit of misery after all she had put him through.

He tried to keep his voice light as he commented, "at least we have Seb. He's been great. Mary's already back at work."

The detective gave a distracted hum. "Yes, Seb... Are you going to fire him?"

John, who had already brought the whiskey glass to his lips again, spluttered, but Sherlock continued. "I'd imagine you're not fond of the fact that your _wife_ is sleeping with your _nanny_ , after all. Most people would—"

"No, just stop," John choked. "Just... talk about something else. Anything else."

Sherlock paused in his playing for a moment. "I could just... play," he suggested, unsure of what else he could say. There wasn't a case on, and he hadn't taken any since Moriarty reappeared.

John gave a short "hmm" of approval and sat back in his seat, with Sherlock's music as the background music to his thoughts.

Sebastian Moran had been a godsend after Rosie was born. He had first appeared in their lives in the early days of Mary's pregnancy, as a patient in need of stitches for a mysterious gash on his chest—one of many. He, too, was an armyman, and as John cleaned the wound and Mary held his hand, that was their point of conversation. He appeared a few weeks later with a broken wrist and asked specifically for John, who had it mended in very little time. After that, the Sebastian became something of a regular patient. He started to bring thank you gifts for the Watsons and even came to dinner a few times, at Mary's request.

When Mary went on maternity leave, Sebastian made sure to ask about her often. He also visited her in the ward and later at home, while John was at work. He would drop off casseroles and baby toys, even after Mary returned to work, and proved to be a very good companion to the baby Rosie, who always calmed at the sight of her favorite big person. John would have been jealous beyond belief of how readily his family accepted a new man in their lives, except that he and Seb got along so well—they watched rugby together and took long walks through the busy streets of London, mutually feeling at odds against the normalcy of a civilian life. Seb fit into the Watsons' lives perfectly.

It was no surprise that John and Mary asked him to be Rosie's nanny when he lost his job as a carpenter. He didn't look like a good fit in the slightest—a muscled man covered with scars, sporting a tiny angel of a baby was a sight that left strangers in the streets whispering to each other—but when he had Rosie in his arms, his rough edges melted into happy cooing and gentle touches. He had a kind of charisma that charmed everybody.

However it _was_ a surprise when John left his shift early one afternoon in February, a year after his daughter's birth, to find his naked wife in the arms of a half-dressed but very _excited_ Sebastian. On the sofa.

Needless to say, that had created some tensions. John knocked back another glass of whiskey, but the scene continued to play out in front of his eyes. Mary had been horrified, and had hastily scooped her clothes off the floor before running after John out of the house, her body hidden from the neighbors only by the shirt pressed against her breasts. Sebastian, meanwhile, sheepishly adjusted his trousers and waited in the doorway with a barely-concealed expression of bliss.

It took several minutes, lots of shouting, and one very shocked neighbor for the situation to sort itself out. In the end, John returned to the car and drove away to stay in a cheap hotel for the night. The following morning, he went to work in the same clothes as he had the day before and sent a resigned text to his best friend. He couldn't even stand to look at his wife, let alone think of the betrayal that had taken place. How could he possibly return to his home and his child?

John reached for the bottle of whiskey only to find one glass's worth of liquid left inside. He pushed down his shame and poured the rest into the glass. He wasn't nearly as drunk as he'd hoped to be.

Across the room, Sherlock continued to play a slightly mournful but moving melody on his violin. He was half-turned towards John, so John could see that his eyes were closed and his breaths were slow. The detective's movements were fluid and graceful, and he rocked slightly as he played, completely absorbed. John remembered their first conversation ever and smiled fondly. _I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days... would that bother you?_ But it hadn't been a bother at all. John had fallen in love with the sound of violins.

_Love?_

John shook his head a bit to detach that particularly not-quite-unfamiliar thought. In the corner of his eye, something moved, and he realized Sherlock had snapped out of his trance and turned towards him, continuing to play at a somewhat softer volume.

"You seem to have a lot to think about," he murmured innocently.

John gave a guilty chuckle. "Yeah, well... it's been a long day. I'm sure you know."

Sherlock stopped playing to wave his bow vaguely in the other's direction as he commented, "yes, I noticed by the state of your clothes that you haven't had a chance to change in quite a while, probably since yesterday, and by your hair that—"

John cut him off tersely. "Yes, Sherlock, thank you, I know."

Something flashed over Sherlock's face, too quickly for John to see properly, but lasting just long enough that John knew he had struck a chord. He gave a long exhale and rubbed his face between his hands. "I didn't mean... You know what? It's fine. I really don't mind that you can deduce me. It's not like I'm trying to hide anything."

Sherlock gave a slight nod and lowered his violin and bow. The sun had long set, but through the darkness, John could see that Sherlock wasn't entirely convinced, so he tried again.

"In a way, it's much nicer being here than with Mary. She'd probably be scolding me for drinking so much and telling me to move my arse and do something productive. And I'd rather take the sound of your violin over the sound of Rosie crying any day."

John thought about his family. His family. He finally had one. He had a nice house, and a stable job, and a beautiful baby, and a wife who at the very least used to love him. And yet he still felt a hole inside of him that itched to be filled.

Sherlock shuffled a little, his bare feet dancing across the bare floor. Suddenly, John felt the desire to be near him, to apologize for not being around in his life, to hold those hands that were usually so precise and sure which now fidgeted with strings.

"But you love Mary," Sherlock stated with the tiniest hint of... was it resentment?

John rose and stepped closer to his friend. "Well she's no Sherlock Holmes," he mused with a small grin. He reached for the violin and bow and placed them on the coffee table. "Things are kind of strange right now, I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed here, in this flat. It was never really the same with me and Mary after you came back."

"You seemed to have no problem managing your life without me," Sherlock murmured in his deep, rumbling voice.

John sighed. _So that's what this is about._ "Look, Sherlock," he blabbered, his tongue loosened by alcohol, "I really am sorry that I didn't come to visit. And that we didn't invite you over as much. It's just that Rosie takes up so much of our time, and we weren't sure how she would respond to you and your, err—"

Sherlock's jaw clenched slightly, and John realized he was fighting a losing battle. He gave another sign and shook his head. "You know what? I think I'm going to go to bed." He turned and had gotten halfway across the room before he paused and turned to face Sherlock again. "If I even have a bed?" he asked hesitantly. After all, he hadn't been to Baker Street in nearly a year, and it wasn't even his flat anymore.

"I may have done a few mould experiments in your room," Sherlock muttered sheepishly. "You should probably sleep in my bed." John was about to protest, but Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I won't be sleeping anyways. Boring. I have a file waiting for me on the effects of cigar smoke on the development of maggots that I was going to look over anyway."

John thought about asking to take the sofa instead, but his head felt vaguely fuzzy, and he decided that he might feel a bit better about everything after a decent night's sleep. He nodded and slipped into the bathroom to wash up.

**Author's Note:**

> This gift isn't complete yet, because it took me forever to decide how to go about filling this prompt, but I swear I will try to update it asap! I have some idea of what the next two chapters will be like ( **spoiler:** chapter 2 is sex)...


End file.
